


a year without summer

by ArtificialFlavorz



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Slow Burn, Warnings will be updated as necessary
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-31
Updated: 2020-07-19
Packaged: 2021-03-03 06:20:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24480097
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArtificialFlavorz/pseuds/ArtificialFlavorz
Summary: He hears the familiarclickof a safety being removed as the cold steel of Viper’s barrel presses into the nape of his neck. “Oh, Jesse,” she drawls, “Come on now. You know there’s only one way to leave the gang.”[their story, from start to end, though not necessarily in that order.]
Relationships: Elizabeth Caledonia Ashe/Jesse McCree
Comments: 8
Kudos: 29





	1. the scent of melancholy

**Author's Note:**

> I’ve been wanting to write some good old fashioned angsty slow-burn for a while now, and goddammit, I will.  
> [Please note: For the purposes of My Own Personal Headcanons, I’ve aged the characters down by a decade or so. ]

> _"A life without love is like a year without summer." -Jenna Evans Welch_
> 
> * * *

_July 16th, 2074_

Ashe leans her back against the wall of the old ranch house. Her exposed thighs, burnt by the summer sun, brush against the white sage that grows amongst its crumbling foundation. She’s always enjoyed this time of year -- the hot days, the afternoon thunderstorms, the cool air of the evening. On summer nights she watches the sun set from her seat among the sage, admiring the way the fading light bounces off the canyon’s steep orange walls, the lengthening of the shadows of the scrubby juniper bushes. The distant chirping of unseen crickets makes good background noise for her oft-troubled thoughts. 

This particular evening is the kind that makes her long to ride her bike through the fading warmth of dusk, to leave the weight on her shoulders in the clouds of dust kicked up behind her. Of course, she thinks, pulling a pack of cigarettes-- the long, thin menthols she’s preferred for nearly a decade-- from her breast pocket, it’s not like she’ll ever see that damn bike again. 

She holds the cigarette between her lips and lights it, fumbling for a few seconds with the lighter. _Low on fluid,_ she notes as it finally sparks and she takes a long, slow drag, _when it rains it pours_. Any other day she’d have Terran run into town and pick up some more in the morning, but given the circumstances, it’s hardly a priority.

She taps the cigarette against the wall, watching the displaced ash drift away in the slow summer breeze.

In that moment, among the desert scrub and the gentle hum of the evening crickets, she can almost believe everything is perfectly normal. That the last few months never happened-- the train, the bike, the weeks that followed. That the impossible decision she faces can dissolve in the honey-gold light of a desert sunset. Almost. 

_I’m afraid money won’t cut it anymore, Ms. Ashe. At least, not what you can afford. So how about we renegotiate our terms? You do a job for us, and you’ll never hear from us again_.

She takes one last drag of her cigarette as the sun dips further behind the canyon wall, barely visible above the lip of the rock. The problems, she supposes, flicking the spent butt a few feet away, started when the train heist went tits up. She and the triplets spent three days in the holding cell of some backwater sheriff before Jay posted their bail. The whole damned scenario was humiliating enough, but then Zeke went and blabbed to the boys exactly what (or rather, who, she corrects herself bitterly) threw the mission in the first place; throwing her under a bus she’s spent the last six years clawing her way out from underneath. She, the feared leader of the Deadlock Gang, brought down by a ghost from her past.

She wonders, briefly, what the perpetrator of her personal haunting would say about the decision she’s yet to make. Probably something stupid about standing up for what she believes in, or some other morality-watchdog bullshit. He always sort of fancied himself to be Robin Hood in a poncho. 

The thought passes as the sun disappears behind the steep rock walls. The spell of early evening breaks and she stands, the night air too cold against her sunburnt legs.

  
  


_June 13th, 2074_

Elizabeth Caldonia Ashe is intimidated by only a few things on Earth-- her father, scorpions, aneurysms-- but the man across the table makes the list. “Can I offer you a drink?” She tips the already-open bottle of whiskey towards him with feigned hospitality. He shakes his head, almost imperceptibly. “Suit yourself.” She pours herself a glass, leaning back in her chair slightly, taking in her unexpected guest.

He’s hardly the typical client. The Deadlock gang deals in small-time crime-- local arms dealers and crooked cops, easy to intimidate and pay off-- but she knows him from the news. A man Zeke once described as a ‘damn refrigerator with arms’-- his dark skin, shaved head, and hulking frame unmistakable, even in a pressed suit.

“Do you always drink this early in the morning?” His voice is deep and flat. It’s hardly an introduction, but she supposes he realizes that his reputation precedes him.

“On special occasions -- after all, it’s not every day a global terrorist walks in and demands a meeting with little old me.” She keeps her voice cool and level, and sets the drink down on the table, adjusting the coaster beneath it. “Now, Mister…” Ashe trails off. On television, the newscasters call him Doomfist, but it’s a name that feels odd to say out loud.

“Doomfist.” He says, eyes narrowing.

It sounds as strange coming from his mouth as it would have from hers. It’s really a shit name, Ashe thinks. “Mr. Doomfist,” she continues, “What brings you ‘round these parts? You know the Deadlock gang ain’t interested in contracts with your organization.”

His frown deepens. “And with Overwatch?”

She lets out a short laugh, but there’s no real humor behind it. “We got our own problems to deal with. Don’t want none of theirs.” She frowns at him. “And yours neither.”

“Oh, yes. I’m sure the problems of small-time bandits are numerous and complex.” She bristles a little at that. “But don’t worry, Ms. Ashe. Talon’s not looking for your services, per say. Not yet. Rather, we’re hoping to assure that your problems…” He gestures vaguely with a hand easily the size of her head, “Don’t become more numerous.”

“I don’t like threats, Mr. Doomfist.” Ashe raises the glass of whiskey to her lips but doesn’t sip it.

“Ah, but I’m sure you’d like them even less if they’re followed through on.” He smiles at her, but the gesture is far from friendly. “You see, Ms. Ashe, Talon has recently… acquired, one might say, control of the railway that runs through this gorge to the border. Lots of agents in those cars.” He leans forward on his hands, a few rings glinting dully on his fingers. “All I’m asking for at the moment is a financial guarantee. After all, we wouldn’t want some of them to find their way here under less… friendly circumstances, would we?”

Ashe hesitates for a moment, trying to gauge the sincerity of the threat. If it were a proposition from a rival gang, she’d have laughed in his face. Maybe tossed some whiskey in it for good measure. Pulled Viper out of the holster at her hip and made an apology for the audacity of his demands his final words. 

She lets out a sigh. Doomfist isn’t some jacked-up cocky kid from across the gorge, playing at gangsters with a cheap pistol. “How much?”

“Fifteen-thousand for this month.” She lets a hiss of air out between her teeth, glaring, and his smile widens, “And if that doesn’t suit you, we can renegotiate our terms next month.”

She nods, not pushing the cost. The gang can afford it, but barely. The train fiasco ten days before blew an unexpected hole in their budget.

“Oh, good. And here I was thinking you’d be trouble.” He leans back in his chair, hands behind his head. “You know, I think I’ll take that drink now.”

_July 16th, 2074_

She hangs her hat on a nail by the side door, clicking both locks into place behind her. Can’t be too careful, even with nothing around for miles. She’s had her fill of uninvited guests. She slides off her boots, dark leather stained orange with fine sandy dust, and places them carefully next to the four larger pairs.

 _Four pairs_ , she thinks. _Some bastard’s tracking dirt on my floors_.

Headquarters has been ‘shoes off’ since she had the original peeling floorboards and chipped linoleum replaced with polished oak five years ago, during a period Terran tactfully refers to as “that time Ashe went bat-shit crazy”. She thinks there’s nothing crazy about not spending every evening pulling slivers from her feet.

\-----

The boys are in the dining room. She can hear their laughter before she pushes open the door. They all fall silent as she enters. They appear to have been in the middle of a hand of poker, each clutching a stack of cards, a pile of hand-painted chips in the center of the table. She’s had a ban on real stakes games ever since Randall pistol-whipped Zeke. She pasues, taking in the scene, and Terran stands, disappearing through the door that leads to the kitchen.

“Welcome back, boss. Enjoy the fresh air?” Jay breaks the silence right as Ashe’s eyes land on his feet, propped up on the table in front of him. She takes a step forward so that she is within an arm's length of the toe of his dust-caked boot, calmly drawing Viper from its holster on her hip. She presses the gun’s barrel into the sole of his left shoe, and clicks back the safety.

“How ‘bout you take your boots off my table while you still have feet to fill them with.” Jay complies, looking sheepish. 

Terran returns, holding a bottle of whiskey by its neck in one hand and a glass in the other. “So, boss. Can I deal you in?” He hands her the bottle and glass before gesturing to the cards.

“No.” She settles in the seat at the furthest end of the table and pours herself a glass of whiskey, downs it in a few quick gulps, then pours another,. The awkward silence that accompanied her entry returns, punctuated only by the shuffling of cards. She takes another swig of her drink, then sighs. “Come on, boys. If you’ve got something to say, spit it out.”

“You made your decision yet?” Randall eyes her from the other side of the table, an unlit cigarette hanging from between his teeth. She wishes he would just smoke them, instead of chewing the filter to hell. By the time he finally gets around to lighting them he only gets a few puffs in before he’s left with a pulpy mess, which he’s liable to drop on the floor for some poor sap to step in.

“I’m thinkin’ about it. Still got three days left.” She throws back the rest of the glass and frowns at him. 

“What’s there to think about? Either Talon kills us or they don’t. Seems like an easy choice to me.”

The thought’s run through her head, too. It’s not like she and five idiots can hold off a multinational terrorist organization, and they’ve run plenty of contraband for morally dubious clients. But something about signing on to Doomfist’s terms doesn’t sit right with her. A few shotguns and a case of bullets aren’t exactly analogous to five train cars packed with nuclear-powered weapons of war. The line between outlaws and terrorists isn’t one she’s particularly interested in crossing, and the patronizing tone of Randall’s question doesn’t make her any more inclined to listen to his opinion on matters. 

“Y’know, it’s funny. I just can’t recall anyone here makin’ you the leader.” She stands, grabbing the open bottle by the neck, and stalks out of the dining room.

\----

She lies on the bed, the covers still tucked in beneath her. Summer nights in the old house are too warm to sleep under the blankets. Her vision swims with the effects of the whiskey, the rotating arms of the ceiling fan overhead doubling and coming together, so it feels like the whole room is gently spinning. The breeze that comes through the open window carries on it the scent of sage and something else, something akin to melancholy. She closes her eyes for a minute, trying to capture her thoughts. 

Seventy-two hours. Talon had given her a week to decide whether she and the boys would run transport ops for them for the next few months, and she had just seventy-two hours left. She’s not sure why she can’t just say fuck it, let’s run the guns. She’s never cared about this sort of thing before. She’s not a woman known for moral crises. And yet-- there’s this doubt, this painful, lingering feeling she’s hesitant to call guilt, that nags at her. It’s not a sensation designed to accompany a ticking clock.


	2. god's knifewound

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A gang leader ain't nobody without a gang to lead.

_ July 16th, 2074 _

She dreams of a canyon. Her canyon, the gorge. The way it looked nine years ago, when she first came up from Texas. A big and empty cut in the ground, the land’s knife-wound from God, rimmed by scrub brush and cacti clinging to life in the sun-baked earth. The air smells like sweet sage and lingering cigar smoke, with no breeze to carry it away. The sky -- clear, empty, and blue -- seems to stretch on forever.

Buzzards circle something on the horizon, and dread settles in her stomach. She is too far to hear their cries, and yet they ring clear as day in her ears. She looks up, squinting in the bright daylight, and realizes the buzzards are not on the horizon, but overhead, doing lazy loops, eyeing her with hungry eyes. They dive down and begin to tear the flesh from her arms, talons sinking in and ripping, slowly. They drive their beaks into her legs, her skin giving way to the meat below. 

She wants to reach up and beat them off, but her hands, so much smaller than she remembers, won’t move, her arms stiff and heavy. She cannot bring her eyes to close and so she watches, unblinking, as the birds tear her limb from limb, and disappear into the endless blue of the sky, leaving a sun-bleached skeleton in their wake.

  
  


_ Summer, 2064 _

She comes home on a Monday. B.O.B meets her at the train station in Dallas, ready to heave her luggage to the idling limousine waiting outside. The bags, heavy with text books she barely opened and two or three wardrobes’ worth of clothes, pose no challenge to the omnic, who dumps them unceremoniously in the vehicle’s open trunk.

They ride in silence, save for the mechanical whirring the driver and B.O.B. She likes to imagine they’re conversing, though she’s sure the noise is just their internal fans struggling against the Texan heat. 

They arrive at her home without ceremony. Unsurprising-- she’d hardly expect for her parents to be waiting, her mother on the wrap-around porch, weeping with joy into a slik handkerchief as her father smiles down at her proudly, hands on his wife’s shoulders.  _ Our baby, a high school graduate! _ At seventeen, she’s far too old to engage in such childish fantasies.

\----

She settles on one of the overstuffed chairs in the library, feet tucked beneath her, and watches B.O.B unload the limousine through the large picture window. She balances an open book on her left knee-- in case of the off-chance her father comes to greet her. The pages flutter gently in the breeze of the fan overhead, which does little to keep beads of sweat from forming along her hairline.

It’s only barely summer, but the heat in the house is already stifling. The sun beats down on the land outside, beaming through the window. She can feel it beginning to burn her skin, but she can’t bring herself to care. She refuses to become her mother-- slathering on the thick sunscreen Marie  _ insists _ is the secret to youth, even indoors. The wintery spring of her New England boarding school has left her too pale, and she figures she could do with a little color. 

A loud  _ ring _ echoes through the cavernous house, reverberating off the marble floors. She stands, hastily setting the book face-down on the chair. With B.O.B. still unloading the car, she supposes she should be the one to answer the door. 

The bell rings again.

“Comin’!” She scrambles down the grand staircase into the house’s entryway, standing on her tip-toes to peek through the glass peep-hole. A young man stands on the porch, and though she can’t determine his features through the mottled glass, she figures by his hat that he’s one of the summer ranch hands. She pulls the door open to greet him.

“Howdy miss,” He pulls the Stetson from his head, holding it to his chest, “Is Mr. Ashe home?”

She pauses for a moment before she replies. examining him. He can’t be more than twenty, the sharp and youthful angles of his face marred with the hint of a five-o-clock shadow. He flashes her a brilliant smile, the warmth of which reaches his eyes, and runs a hand through his tousled black hair. She can feel a slight blush rise to her cheeks. “Far as I know, he ain’t. Should be back within the hour, though. I’d be happy to wait with you.” She gestures to one of the benches on the porch, and he tips his head in gratitude, taking a seat. “Can I get you a glass of water?”

\---

She returns with two cups of ice water, setting them both on the small table adjacent to the bench. She takes the seat across from him.

“Thank you kindly, miss.” He smiles at her, and she is once again struck by the warmth of it, “Don’t figure I’ve rightly introduced myself. Jesse Mcree, at your service.” 

He extends a calloused, sun-tanned hand for her to shake, and she obliges. “Elizabeth Ashe.”

His eyes get a little wide, “Why, Ms. Ashe, I--”

She waves away whatever apology for familiarity he’s formulating. “Please, just call me Elizabeth. Save the formalities for my father.” 

He laughs in response-- a hearty, genuine sound, and she grins back at him.

\----

She takes to spending summer evenings with him around the paddock, and he takes to calling her Lizzie.

Elizabeth, he explains, makes her sound like some stuck-up princess. Lizzie’s good, she replies, ‘cause she sure as hell ain’t a princess. She’s pretty enough to be one, he jokes, which turns the tips of her ears red. 

She learns his grin is as cocky as it is warm, and though he’s quick to a smart-aleck response, he’s not much for reading, and so sometimes she brings a book along and they read together, slowly, by the light of a campfire. He learns she knows big words better than she does slang and teases her mercilessly for it.

He smokes cigars because he thinks it makes him look cool and she sneaks packs of her mother’s menthols from the nightstand in the master bedroom so they can sit together as the sun sets and the darkness gathers, the angles of their faces illuminated by the glowing tips of their mutual bad habit.

One afternoon, as the sun sinks in the sky, he closes the paddock gate behind him and asks her if she knows how to shoot. It’s sort of a passing question, but one that digs itself right under her skin as it leaves his lips.

“Of course I can shoot, Jesse.” Her tone is clipped and he grins as he realizes he’s struck a nerve.

“Oh, yeah? I always figured girls who live in big houses got someone else to do the shooting for them.” She grits her teeth, hissing and he laughs. “Oh, come on, Lizzie. No need to take it so personal. ‘Sides, no one’s stoppin’ you from showin’ off.”

\---

He digs out a box of empty beer bottles from the recesses of a supply shed along the edge of the property, carefully balancing ten of them along the fence posts. He then pulls his pistol from the holster at his waist and hands it to her, handle first. She removes the safety and takes several steps back.

The weight’s different from the biathlon rifles she’s used to, though she’d never tell Jesse that. She can just imagine him, laughing at the rich girl on skis, hitting paper targets through a scope. She takes a deep breath, closing one eye, and fires off ten succinct shots. Nine of the bottles shatter. She misses the tenth by the smallest fraction of an inch. She blows a piece of hair away from her eye, repositions her feet, and fires again. The bottle breaks, and she relaxes her stance, clicking the gun’s safety back into place.

Jesse, beside her, lets out a low whistle. “Where’d a pretty little thing like you learn to shoot like that?” 

\---

Target practice becomes a part of their nightly routine. She pays for the bullets, and the beer when they run out of empties, and he teaches her trick shots, how to aim for a target one-hundred meters away with no scope, and how to open a bottle with her teeth. She rides the bike her father gifted her for her sixteenth birthday to the property’s edge every sunset and he meets her there, grinning, with an open bottle of the cheap Mexican beer he loves. For every bottle they break a new empty takes its place and she learns quickly he’s a good shot even when drunk. 

“Lizzie, do you think I’m corruptin’ you?”

She knocks the final bottle in the case off a fence post riddled with bullet holes and sits down next to the dying fire. Between the beer and the fading flames, his face swims in and out of focus as she tries to gauge his sincerity. “Jesse, that’s a stupid question. Even by your standards.”

“I’m just thinkin’,” He lights a cigar and puffs on it a little, his eyebrows furrowed, “You’re an heiress. Ain’t you supposed to be learnin’ how to go to fancy balls and buy diamond earrings and count your money? What would your parents say if they knew you were out here, gettin’ drunk with some no-good farmhand?”

She snorts, taking the lighter from him and pulling out a cigarette from the pack in her back pocket. “My parents,” she lights the cigarette and takes a drag, “are assholes, Jesse. I ain’t the least bit interested in goin’ to some fancy university and marryin’ some lawyer. I’d rather live the rest of my life like this,” she gestures with the cigarette, “than turn into my mother. ‘Sides,” She pulls a wad of bills from her pocket and hands it to him, smirking, “they’re the ones who need to learn to count their money.” 

  
  


_ July 17th, 2074 _

There are only four pairs of shoes by the door that morning. Ashe counts them carefully. She doesn’t bother asking where the other two have gone. Randall and Jay have always been a package deal, and their commitment to the gang in the last few weeks has been tenuous at best. 

She goes to the kitchen and pours herself a cup of coffee, stirring in what little cream is left in the fridge and lighting herself a cigarette. The triplets, seated at the small table in the room’s corner, watch her quietly. The ranch house feels too big with only four occupants, she notes. She takes a long drag from her cigarette, smiling bitterly as a thought passes her mind,  _ whaddaya know, the only thing those two were good for was taking up space _ . 

“Coffee’s burnt.” She notes, and the boys let out a nervous chuckle. She realizes they’re expecting some kind of reckoning, awaiting her furious orders to hunt down the deserters and make ‘em pay, to live up to the wraithful reputation she’s spent a decade building.

_ There’s only one way to leave the gang. _

Times have changed. She can’t afford to lose more men-- and she almost always seems to, when she hunts down former members. Something about former outlaws seems incompatible with an easily-accepted death. Regardless of the decision she makes in the coming days, she’ll need men. A gang leader ain’t nobody without a gang to lead. 

“Listen, boys, I need space to clear my head.” And she does. She’s hardly slept, and the emptiness of the house does little to calm her nerves. She wants a whiskey poured by someone else for a change. She’s sick of laying low. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I should be updating about once a week from here on out, and I'll have an update schedule figured out by the next time I post! Thank y'all again for reading-- your feedback is so appreciated ♥  
> I also expect chapters to be longer, beginning with the next update.


	3. doing this forever

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He looks at her with an expression she can’t quite place, and her heart skips a beat.  
> “Y'know princess, I was pretty convinced you weren't capable of smiling like that.”

_ July 17th, 2074 _

Ashe parks her bike –  _ Zeke's bike, _ she corrects herself bitterly-- in front of the bar. It doesn’t have a name -- just a burnt-out neon sign that reads “Bar” in the front window. She takes a moment to adjust her windswept hair in the reflection of the dusty pane, trying to ignore the way the dark circles beneath her eyes show through the powder she spent nearly an hour meticulously applying. The dark eyeliner she's worn for years does little to detract from purple-gray bruises of sleeplessness.

It's very nearly five pm, but there are very few vehicles in the lot. It's Sunday, she realizes. Not that it matters in Deadlock-- blue laws may have hounded her in Texas, but here any place that sells liquor is open for business regardless of the day of the week. There's a few beaters parked haphazardly in the side lot, a rusted-out bike, and an oddly clean, sleek, SUV with blacked-out windows. If she were in a clearer headspace, the car's presence would have struck her as odd, but she isn't and it doesn't. She merely spares a remorseful thought to her leaving the boys behind with such a wonderful jacking opportunity so readily available, before pushing open the door to the bar, heeled boots clicking against the wood floors.

_ Summer 2064 _

She turns eighteen in early August. Her father leaves a small wrapped gift on the dining table and she opens it as she eats breakfast alone, B.O.B's mechanical eyes trained on her from across the room.

She carefully removes the wrapping, running a long nail under the tape that holds it together so that the creases of the stiff red paper remain unsullied by wrinkles, and removes a pair of simple diamond earrings and a matching ring, accompanied by a tiny card of authenticity with a hastily scrawled  _ Happy birthday, Elizabeth _ on the back in her father's writing. Her mother hasn’t bothered to sign it. 

She snaps the earrings into her lobes absentmindedly and slides the ring on her left forefinger. Birthdays have never been of much importance to her.

The doorbell rings, echoing through the long hall between the entryway and the dining room, and B.O.B whirs into action. She follows him to the door, which he opens without ceremony. Jesse grins at her from the porch, his eyes sparkling with mischief. 

“Well howdy there, birthday girl. Told the boss I don't feel too good today-- how 'bout you help me play hooky?” He holds out his hand and she takes it, his calloused palm rough against her smooth skin. Before she can respond to anything he's said, he's pulling her out the door and down the front steps, leaving B.O.B’s hulking shadow framed in the doorway. 

As the house shrinks behind them, he turns to her with his brilliant smile and proclaims, arms outstretched, “I got big plans for today, Lizzie.”

“Oh, yeah? Like what, cowboy? Gonna take me to the opera? Buy me a lobster dinner?” 

He rubs his head sheepishly, “Well, nah. I actually figured we could just drink and shoot stuff.”

“So the same as every day.” Her words are critical but her tone is joking, and he laughs in response.

“Well, sure, princess, but we'll be startin' a lot earlier. Plus, I got you a present.” The way he says it, arms outstretched and grin flashing, she can tell he's proud, and resists the urge to continue her teasing. 

“Well, where is it, Jesse? You can't tell a girl something like that and not give it to her.”

“Anyone ever tell you you're impatient?”

“Every day of my life since I could talk. Now cough up the gift, cowboy.”

+

He gives her a gun-- a rifle, with a scope and everything, though it pulls back like a shotgun. It's the most beautiful thing she's ever seen, with a mother-of-pearl-handle and a perfectly smooth, shining barrel. He presents it to her in a misshapen brown package, held together with the twine the ranchands use to tie up hay bales. She removes the coarse paper gingerly, not used to opening gifts in front of anyone but B.O.B, and her breath catches a little in her throat when she sees the package's contents. 

“So, what do you think, princess? Up to royal standards?” She can't find the words to reply, choosing instead to give him a firm punch on the arm. “Wow, that bad, huh?”

“Jesse, where the hell did you get the money for something like this?” It's not the 'thank you' she'd intended to deliver, but he takes the response in stride.

“You overpay for the beer.” 

She lets out a short laugh before turning her attention back to the weapon in her hands, turning it over carefully, the barrel glinting in the sunlight. “Is it loaded?”

“What, you think I'm the kinda guy to give you a toy you can't play with out of the package? Any gift from Jesse Mcree comes with batteries included.”

She wastes no time arranging a few bottles along the fence posts, taking a hundred paces before firing.

The weight is perfect, the scope aligns exactly with her eyeline, and as she pulls the trigger, there is virtually no kickback. The bottles break in perfect succession. She clicks the safety into place before turning to Jesse, beaming. He looks at her with an expression she can’t quite place, and her heart skips a beat.

“Y'know princess, I was pretty convinced you weren't capable of smiling like that.”

+

Jesse calls the gun Viper. He says a little thing like her needs a gun that bites hard and claims it's a tradition for the gifter to name the piece, which she's fairly sure is bullshit. He presents her with a carton of menthols, topped with a lop-sided hay-string bow, saying that no self-respecting adult should be pinching smokes from their mama, and when her fair skin begins to burn under the late-summer sun, he produces a hat, unwrapped, and tells her to keep it.

“Y'know, Jesse,” She leans against his shoulder, swirling the contents of her beer bottle slowly, “I ain't never had a friend like you.”

“What, poor?” 

She snorts, “No, asshole. I mean,” She tilts her head up towards his face, eyebrows furrowed in thought “This is the first birthday I've celebrated with another person. Ever.”

He leans his chin down to look at her with surprise, “Really? I figured you had big ol’ parties in that house.”

“Well, sure, my dad will throw client parties, and Mom's had charity balls and shit like that, but, no, never my birthday.” she closes her eyes, the beer and summer sun making her sleepy, “I'm surprised you even remembered, cowboy.”

“Lizzie, make no mistake: when it comes to pretty girls, I remember everything.” She lets out half a breathy laugh, eyes still closed, and he leans closer to whisper in her ear. “Y'know, you look awful sparkly today.”

She snaps one eye open to glare at him playfully. “Don't even think about touching my diamonds, Jesse.”

+

As the sun climbs higher in the sky, they retreat to the meager shade of the lone stand of juniper trees along the west edge of the property. He clears away some of the fallen needles and rests his back against the trunk of one of the taller bushes, mindlessly examining the deep purple berries that grow in bunches among its lacy foliage, and she lays her head in his lap, new hat resting over her face as to protect her fair skin from the sun.

“Lizzie,” his voice is uncharacteristically sincere, and she lifts the hat from her face, squinting one eye open to peer up at him, “do you really wanna know where I got the cash for that gun?”

_ July 17th, 2074 _

The bar's interior is dark and dingy, and the air is heavy with the scent of stale tobacco smoke, but it's not the ranch house and that alone is enough to make it refreshing. She strides to the bar and orders a drink-- whiskey, straight up. Not that the last specification matters-- Deadlock Canyon is not the kind of place where one can get a drink over ice. Hell, she hates the diner down the street because the ‘iced coffee’ is served lukewarm in a mug. 

The bartender nods and pours the drink, sliding it across to her, and as she reaches for her wallet, he shakes his head, nodding behind her. Ashe turns, swiftly, to find herself facing a man, dressed too smartly to be from the area, wearing wrap-around shades despite the dim lighting of the bar. “Her drink’s on me,” he says gruffly, before pointing to a corner booth. 

She narrows her eyes but follows him to the booth, sitting on the edge of the peeling seat, clutching the whiskey glass so tightly her knuckles are a pale yellow-white. 

“Ms. Ashe, I represent a government agency that has become… concerned with your current business practices.” The man peers at her over the tops of his sunglasses, his expression unreadable. “Are you familiar with Overwatch?”

The phrase  _ Overwatch _ causes her to release her vice-grip on the glass, anger building up within her chest as she hisses out a response. “Something tells me you already know that I am.”

His expression remains flat as he continues, as if her outburst hadn’t occurred at all. “Overwatch, Ms. Ashe, is willing to offer you an out. A safety net, if you will. If, of course, you agree to our terms.”

“Which are?”

The man pauses, as if weighing his words carefully. “We’re always on the lookout for new associates, Ms. Ashe, and we’ve come to believe that you would be an asset to our program.”

Ashe lets out a short barking laugh, standing swiftly. She throws back the whiskey, ignoring the burn in her throat, then leans down so she is on eye-level with the stranger. “Let’s get one thing clear,” she reaches out a manicured finger, pulling his sunglasses down the bridge of his nose with the tip of her nail so that she can look directly into his pale blue eyes, “I would rather hang than be one of your pussy-ass yes-men.” She rams the glasses back up his nose, straightens up, and turns around, stalking out of the bar, her heels clicking loudly against the floor.

+

The sun is setting as she approaches the ranch house, the clattering of Zeke’s engine echoing against the canyon’s walls as the purple shadows lengthen around her. She finds an out-of-place comfort in watching the house take shape on the horizon, its form becoming clearer as she approaches. The house, she thinks, doesn’t know anything’s wrong.

She’s about two hundred yards away when she notices the bike--  _ her  _ bike, there’s no mistaking it, even at a distance, parked among the sagebrush, and maybe a hundred when she sees the figure seated on the porch steps. Ashe hits the brakes, the bike below her jerking to a stop, and when the sudden motion causes her to bite down on her tongue the blood in her mouth tastes like every drink she’s had in the last six years. 

The evening breeze carries the smell of cigar smoke.

_ Summer 2064 _

There are tears in her eyes-- golden-red in the flickering light of the flames, building up and streaming down her face. She wants to stop crying, to suck it up and pretend like the disappointment in her father’s voice hadn’t hurt just as much as the crushing pressure of his fingers as they dug into her arms.

Jesse leans forward, wiping a tear away with his thumb, eyes unreadable as they reflect the glow of the fire. His thumb lingers on her cheek for a second, brushing over the gash left by her father’s ring, before he turns back towards the crackling logs.

“Lizzie,” he says, voice soft and thoughtful, “Do you remember what you said about doin’ this forever?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! Sorry for the late update. I was out of town for a few weeks and then I moved, but I’m back now! ‘ll be going back and editing the first two chapters here in the next couple days because I want this piece to be perfect, so keep an eye out for that! I know I said that this chapter would be longer, but I’m feeling v particular re: how this chapter and the next will be formatted as we get through the ‘introduction’ sort of segment of our story. xx

**Author's Note:**

> I have this whole piece story-boarded out start-to-finish, and I'm so excited to continue writing it and sharing it with y'all. Thank you for reading ♥


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